


I'll Always Be Your Angel

by SnakesandTea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cutting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Feels, Gen, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21677749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnakesandTea/pseuds/SnakesandTea
Summary: The life Crowley built and loved on Earth was ending. Aziraphale didn’t want to go to Alpha Centauri with him. He didn’t have much to lose— it wasn’t like he could fall any farther. He turned the knife over in his hands. Crowley wasn’t completely sure he could break his own skin. ***Crowley cuts, Aziraphale finds/takes care of his demon.***
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 80





	1. Decisions

Crowley knew of some demons who actually specialized in convincing teenagers to self-harm. They were considered to be rather successful, as many of those humans eventually did find their way into hell’s ranks. Crowley shuddered at the thought of corrupting children; and teenagers were children in his eyes – young and naïve. Adults, well, they practically did all the work themselves as far as this demon was concerned - but he’d still offer a phone-outage or three to really stir the pot.

His stomach churned as he looked at the knife in his hand. He’d purchased the blade from a little roadside shop. No, it wasn’t very Bad of him to buy something. But the owner had been quite friendly when he stopped in, and, especially given Aziraphale’s “profession” he was a small-business supporter. He swallowed hard, thoughts of his angel sending a twist of guilt through his chest. If this killed – or discorporated – him, Aziraphale would be devastated. And that damn angel would blame himself, he thought. Crowley shook his head, he wouldn’t let himself think about that now.

With a decisive sigh, he pressed the blade into the soft skin of his forearm. It merely hurt; though, he did enjoy seeing his blood wind down his arm. His brows furrowed as he considered perhaps, he did it wrong. He tried again, a deeper cut this time- down to the muscle. Something in his brain shifted. For a moment, he thought he might discorporate. Instead, his corporation produced copious amounts of adrenaline; the rush crashed through him, a wave of euphoric bliss. Yes, he could lose himself in this— the Earth be damned. Crowley wanted to slither into the feeling and never let it go. But, almost immediately, it began to fade. Looking down, he realized he’d made more slits in his forearm and bright red drips were starting to puddle on the cement floor.

He unfurled his great, black wings as a fuzzy idea formed in his head. Taking his knife, he thrust the blade into the feathers nearest his back. A gasp of pain escaped his lips as he jabbed the weapon into his wing again and again, desperately trying to hack off the physical reminder of his fall. Blood fountained down his back, loose black feathers sticking to the red streams. His vision swam, blurring into streaks of red and gray as he fell to the ground, cradling his arm to his chest. Crowley landed with a wet smack amidst bloody, black feathers. He felt his heartbeat throbbing in his wing and back. A warm darkness washed over him, quieting the whirlwind in his head.

Aziraphale had a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. He checked on his shop multiple times, ensuring the back door was locked, no organized piles were in danger of falling, and all his (unlit) scented candles were far away from his precious collection. Still, the feeling remained, worsening by the minute. He wondered if he should call Crowley; the demon had seemed rather put-out by his refusal to join him in running away to Alpha Centauri. A quick ring wouldn’t hurt, he decided, already dialing. Aziraphale thought it peculiar when his calls went to voicemail three times— even when upset with him, Crowley never ignored a third call if he was home.

Taking it upon himself to innocently pop over, Aziraphale noticed two things: one, the front door could use a fresh coat of paint, and, two, more importantly, the air was heavy with something evil he couldn’t quite place He knocked. “Crowley? It’s me.” Met with silence, Aziraphale continued, “Dear, please open the door. I understand if you’re cross with me. But I’m worried everything isn’t tickety-boo.” Sure, he was used to the demon being a bit childish when it came to slithering away from his problems- but this seemed extreme, and Aziraphale had enough. “On the count of three, I’m coming in. One, two, three.” He miracled the door open to find his demon curled up in a puddle of blood.


	2. Questions and Silence

“Crowley!” The angel shrieked. “What happened, my dear?” He asked, hastening toward him.

The demon’s eyes were glassy and unfocused as he searched for the source of the voice. “Angel?” Alarm bells chimed that Aziraphale shouldn’t see him like this. He was too weak to care. Fortunately, he noted, he’d sheathed his wings while unconscious. At least his angel wouldn’t see those.

“Oh — look at your arm.” He nearly recoiled when he touched Crowley’s shoulder— the poor thing was ice cold. His knowledge of snakes was particularly lacking in the field of injuries, but Aziraphale knew that Crowley, who was always a bit icy to the touch, was far, far too cold. Quickly, he scooped the shirtless, bleeding demon into his arms and transported them back to the bookshop.

He miracled towels over the couch before carefully laying Crowley down. Immediately, his demon burrowed into the plush cushions, seeking anything warm. Aziraphale covered him in a couple blankets before retrieving a first aid kit and shedding his blood-stained coat. He wasn’t sure of demonic recovery time, nor what kind of charms might have been on the weapon with which Crowley was assaulted. Thus, he decided, the human way of bandaging his arm was safest. Aziraphale knelt beside the couch, his stomach flipped as he inspected the lacerations on Crowley’s forearm. “Dear boy, what happened to you?” He whispered to the sleeping demon. Aziraphale gingerly dabbed at the first wound with peroxide. Once it was clean, he used a butterfly bandage to pull the cut back together. He worked his way down the demon’s arm, repeating the process for each abrasion.

Even passed out, Crowley appeared to be in pain, twitching and emitting soft groans as each section of torn skin was reattached. The angel felt another pang of nausea as he cleaned the last cut. It was deeper than the rest – down into the muscle. Healing humans was one thing, caring for Crowley was another, entirely. He worked quickly, getting it cleaned and bandaged before he lost his lunch. Finally finished with what Aziraphale considered the hard part, he wrapped Crowley’s arm in an ace bandage to keep it clean and prevent any of the plasters from coming off.

Glancing up, he noticed blood on the back of the sofa. His brows furrowed as he tried to recall how it could’ve gotten there. It was quite a lot, especially considering he’d gotten the arm under control rather quickly. As he pondered the source, he scanned the room. His gaze landed on a black feather stuck to his shoe. Gingerly, he plucked it from the leather and took a closer look. A clump of dried blood sullied the feather near its base. But why would his wings have been out? Oh. Aziraphale frowned, dropping to his knees before the demon. “Crowley?” He swallowed the lump in his throat, refusing to entertain the idea that Crowley did this to himself. “Dear, I need you to show me your wings.”

Crowley groaned and, with a great deal of difficulty, rolled onto his stomach. A flurry of black feathers burst from his back. Crowley’s left wing was hanging on by threads. His right wing, somewhat better, as most of the lacerations hadn’t made it past muscle deep. The movement reopened his wounds, allowing fresh blood to leak from the gashes.

Aziraphale bit back his gasp. “Very good, my dear,” he said evenly. “Now, I just need you to sit still while I clean you up, all right?” He took the demon’s silence as compliance and miracled a bucket of warm water with a soft rag. Fortunately, it appeared most of the abrasions had already sealed themselves and Crowley wasn’t in any danger of bleeding out – at least, for the moment. Aziraphale dipped his rag in the water and gently dabbed at a clump of bloody, matted feathers. Slowly, he worked his way through each injury, forcing himself to forget, for a moment, the identity of his patient. Every time the water or rag grew too copper-colored, he miracled them clean. Hours passed as he diligently cleaned his demon’s wings, taking deliberate care to make it as painless as possible.

Eventually reaching the base of Crowley’s left wing, he gagged. The exposed nerves, muscles, and bone of a friend was too much for the angel. He put a hand over his mouth as bile rose in his throat. Aziraphale turned away and took a few deep breaths. He reminded himself he had to be strong for Crowley – for the demon who would do literally anything for him. Steeling his nerves, he inspected the damage. It seemed the weapon – a knife, he guessed – had missed all of the truly vital parts of his wing and spinal cord. Breathing a sigh of relief, the angel reached for a roll of gauze. He took a deep breath and began wrapping it around the base of Crowley’s wing.

“’M sorry, angel,” Crowley breathily slurred in his sleep.

Aziraphale paused his work and leaned in closely, “What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.”

The demon mumbled something indecipherable followed by “sorry.”

His heart dropped. “Whatever are you sorry for, dear boy?” He received a soft snore in response. Damn. Aziraphale gave him a small, tight-lipped smile and returned his attention to finishing up his work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Life things happened. Hope you guys are well


	3. What Its Like to Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets Crowley to open up a bit.

Crowley woke to the familiar smell of old books and tea brewing. Drowsily, he glanced down at his arm. Seeing the bandaging, he sat straight up, all the color draining from his pale cheeks. “No,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Oh, good! You’re up!” Aziraphale said cheerfully. Of course, he wanted to bring up the arm and wing issue, but said things were best done carefully— and not when a particularly slippery demon was already anxious.

He tried in vain to hide his arm under the covers, though, he quickly figured it was a useless endeavor. Especially since his wings were out— his bandaged wings, he amended. Gesturing at his arm, Crowley asked, “I’m guessing you’re the reason for this?”

Aziraphale was caught off-guard, expecting to have to drag an explanation from his demon. Instead, it seemed he was going to hand it to him on a silver platter. “Yes, dear boy, I am,” he replied cautiously. 

Crowley hated that his angel had seen him in such a vulnerable state, with injuries he inflicted on purpose — even though Aziraphale was a being of love— Crowley didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve the kindness, especially not in the face of his blatant poor choices. Staring at the ground he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

The angel perched himself on the edge of the sofa, so as not to spook him. “Why did you do it?” He asked softly, tears already beginning to collect in his eyes. Aziraphale knew he had to be strong for his demon, but even he had his limitations.

Not meeting his gaze, Crowley said, “Didn’t see a reason not to.”

He nodded, knowing his voice would give away just how hurt he was. How could Crowley do this? And not come to him? Well, that part was simple; the serpent despised showing any sign of weakness – and that brilliant bastard thought emotions made him look weak. Oh, it all be damned. He forced his voice to stay even, “Yes, but why, dear?”

Emotions churned in his stomach as his tongue seemed to fill with lead. How could he explain it? His rage? His hurt? His sheer hatred of what he was? Another wave of nausea crashed over him as he buried his head in his hands. Crowley’s shoulders shook as centuries of pent-up agony escaped.

Aziraphale tentatively put his arm around the sobbing demon. Softly, he murmured, “It’s all right. That’s it, let it out, dear boy.”

In spite of himself, Crowley leaned against his angel, hiding his face in his lap as he wept uncontrollably. The angel’s arms wrapped around him, tightly. For the first time in a long time, Crowley felt loved and protected. He desperately wanted to stay nestled safely in Aziraphale’s embrace.

The demon’s anguish was nearly palatable. Aziraphale yearned to help him, in whatever way he could. “We can work through anything, my dear, together,” the angel whispered.

Crowley pulled away and gave him a dark glare, his defenses rapidly rising. The outpouring of emotion had left him feeling rather raw and exposed. Finally, he lashed out, “You don’t know what it’s like to Fall”.

Aziraphale ached with the loss of his demon’s weight against him and was started by the borderline-accusation. “True; I don’t. Could you explain it to me?” He wanted—needed—to understand— to find some way to comprehend what kind of pain Crowley must be in to resort to such drastic measures.

The demon stood, grabbed his glasses from the side table, and shoved them on. “Maybe another time, Angel.”

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

He shrugged and started toward the door.

“Crowley,” he clicked his tongue, “really, look at yourself. Your wings are out and you’re not even wearing a shirt.” The last thing he wanted to do was harm the demon, but Crowley had to see reality. Aziraphale’s chest pounded as he awaited an answer. New waves of concern surged through him with every beat.

The demon paused, looked down, and snarled. He muttered something under his breath and plopped back on the couch beside him. “Fine, I’m staying. You bloody happy, Angel?” Crowley snarled.

Aziraphale picked up his cup, frowning as his tea had gone cold. “Far from it, my dear,” he replied and miracled the contents of his mug warm again. The angel opened a book and waited for Crowley’s agitation to pass, for, he knew as soon as it did, his demon would be an absolute disaster. Minutes turned to hours; one book turned to seven.

Finally, the serpent’s hands dropped to his sides and his shoulders sagged in defeat. “Angel, I—I’m sorry. I know you were just trying to help.” Crowley snarled again, this time, at himself. He really was a bastard. He deserved to Fall.

“It’s all right.” Aziraphale watched the shift in his demon, he saw the grimace on his face. The sooner Crowley faced this, the better. He made another attempt, “Do you think you could explain what it was like to fall? Please, for me?”

The sincerity in his angel’s voice strangled his sultry ‘no’. For a long time, he was silent, contemplating how to explain what he considered to be one of the worst days of his existence. After a good many minutes, Crowley removed his glasses, slid his hand over his face and through his hair, took a deep breath, and began. “Imagine you’re safe and warm, comfortable and sound. Everything is great, you’re making constellations and galaxies— had a bit too much fun with some of those moons,” he recalled with a lopsided smile. “Anyway— one day, you ask Her why she wants you to make something that will eventually destroy the humans— a huge meteor. It’s not huge now, but it will be— it’ll keep crashing into larger space rocks and careening toward earth. She said “it’s part of the ineffable plan.” And you scoff. You ask her how she can kill children — children she claims to love.” He paused, the bitter taste in his mouth started to make him a bit nauseous. Swallowing hard, he continued, “She tells you you’ve asked too many questions. And suddenly, you’re plummeting. Spiraling down toward who-knows-where. Your wings are on fire— your gorgeous white wings are getting all charred and black- and they hurt – Angel, they hurt so damn bad.” Crowley glanced at his midnight wings; the contrast of the light bandaging sent a chill through him. He continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to anyone— or explain yourself.” The demon choked off, unable to describe hell, or the crushing loss of The Almighty’s love.


End file.
